


(you're so high) you had to be an angel

by cerisedreams



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Heavy Angst, I apologize in advance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisedreams/pseuds/cerisedreams
Summary: The heavens claim Misty, now forever confined to the stars, and the sacrifices Cordelia has to make to rearrange the cosmos.OR Michael Langdon is never born, Myrtle isn’t burned at the stake, and Cordelia achingly wishes on shooting stars.
Relationships: Misty Day/Cordelia Foxx | Cordelia Goode
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	(you're so high) you had to be an angel

“…You are, I think, an evening star,

of all the stars, the fairest…”

– Sappho, from “ **_Fragments_ ** ”

  
  


Pale beams of sunlight cascade through the window, light shining too bright and optimistic for Cordelia’s tired brown eyes. The sun rises every morning in a world plagued with chaos and despair–promises of tomorrow that she no longer has any interest for. 

Misty Day dies on a Sunday.

When she’s alone in her office after long tiresome days, in the wee hours of the morning, still clad in yesterday’s clothing and running on an empty stomach, she thinks about that. Thinks about the utter  _ peculiarity _ of losing this precious woman on a Sunday. Somehow, the death on such a holy day of the week as part of a sacred ritual provides a sense of backwards epiphany, an unfinished resolution that’s borderline godless. 

She can’t begin to understand it, the task of unraveling the nature of Misty’s demise too complicated for her fragile state of mind. Cordelia has futilely tried to come to terms with it. Sometimes, when she allows herself to crumble and reaches her weakest moments staring down the end of a bottle of wine—or two (before Myrtle or Zoe or even Queenie pry the bottle from her fingertips at dawn and help her get to bed, though she can’t remember those instances), she enumerates their encounters, however brief or spaced out, and attempts to understand how Misty built a home in the warmth of Cordelia’s heart without the older blonde noticing; without factoring in the possibility of those four walls tumbling down and in the process, splintering that very same heart they were protected in.

Her feelings had sprouted silently, a rose blooming in the middle of winter, unexpectedly in the best way.  _ Love _ . It gnawed at her ribcage, threatening to burst out like fireworks and coat everyone in her vicinity in colorful glitter. But she hadn’t let it; instead she’d crushed it down and swallowed her honey-glazed emotions until there was no trace left behind but the bittersweet taste on her tongue.

It’s her own fault, really.

Cordelia was well aware she shouldn’t have let any of her girls perform a task as dangerous as the Seven Wonders. Not when they weren’t ready; they hadn’t had much time, after all, to prepare for the pending doom that awaited just around the corner. It was Fiona’s job to identify the next Supreme. It was her job because that way, none of them had to be put in danger. And it wasn’t fucking fair.

Her girls were dying and there was nothing Cordelia could do about it.

When everyone slowly came back from  _ Descensum _ and Misty was still down there, precious wind got knocked out of Cordelia’s lungs. Her stomach dropped and her legs liquefied. She was on her knees beside Misty, head lowered in aggrieved prayer, holding her as close as she could, hoping with all her being she could be an anchor for the younger blonde to cling on to; just a little longer. That's all they needed: just a little longer.

She thought she knew pain, she thought she knew what it’s like to  _ bleed _ , to  _ hurt _ . But she didn’t, not really. No pain was greater than this. 

“Follow my voice,” Cordelia had murmured as she latched onto the blonde’s frame. “We’re all here waiting for you.”

It wasn’t enough. The warmth emanating from Misty's body dissipated all at once, though Cordelia could still feel the buzz upon her pale skin. She held Misty tightly as the woman vanished into thin air, the ashes slipping cruelly through the valley of her fingers.

Misty Day dies on a Sunday.

And it feels  _ so wrong _ to be glowing with radiant health when the woman she loves has been taken from the realm of the living; when Cordelia knows Misty’s destined to be trapped in the unforgiving depths of hell for the rest of eternity, punished by reviving the foul things she fears greatly. Supremacy is undeserving when she knows Misty won’t be standing right by the side of her throne, when she knows she could’ve done  _ more _ –anything to save her. Idle worship for a woman who couldn’t save the one person she loved most, amongst the ruins of a crippled empire. Supremacy is undeserving when Cordelia’s convinced she’s the one who deserved Misty’s faith.

By Wednesday, Myrtle has tried to get Cordelia to move, to eat, to do something other than be slumped uselessly in bed, her brain short on processing the absence, the loss of something she barely touched, barely got acquainted with but feels she’s known forever. This was what Cordelia had been blindly chasing all her life, and just when she found  _ her _ , this blooming fragile thing, it was viciously snatched from her greedy hands.

The extent of her grief is not lost on Myrtle, despite not being able to comprehend why it sits so heavy on her darling girl’s heart.

Exactly a week after Misty’s death, the girls arrange a memorial, a ritual of sorts to shine some light on Misty’s newly scripted, darkened faith. A ceremony Queenie finds in the mansion’s library, written on a crumpled old page wedged between the pages of a necromancy spellbook. Fueling on the energy of the full moon, their small coven gathers outside the greenhouse to perform the spell. They light up a bonfire and Myrtle instructs them to encircle it, holding hands.

“ _ Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace,” _ Myrtle recites, though her voice breaks. “ _ Amen. _ ”

The flame turns an electric shade of blue before it dissipates with a wail and a  _ hiss _ , and it’s over.

(Cordelia participates dumbfoundedly, barely paying attention to the task at hand. She stoically stares at the flickering fire and does her best to ignore the wide gaping hole in their small circle, the missing puzzle piece; an absence of a particular bening light they’ll be obliged to pretend to fill somehow.)

Myrtle continues with the ceremony, saying a few words to remember Misty by. “On the darkest of times, when this coven was brought to its knees by our worst enemy, Misty Day came to our rescue. A seemingly simple witch, disguised as a dirty swamp fae, who held a power so selfless it managed to bring tears to my eyes. Those extraordinary gifts and the characteristic humanity of her spirit separated her from everyone around her. Oh, her soul sang when there was weeping, and it was beautiful,” Myrtle says. “She brought half of us chickens back to life without asking for anything in return but a family. Misty is still a living testament to the greater ideals of our coven. Power, compassion and uniqueness. We say goodbye to our sister witch tonight, with hopes she can, someday, find the light of the rising sun again.”

Even Zoe, who knew her better and much longer than Cordelia–though not to the same extent, not her soul anyway–manages to get a few thoughtful sentences out before she chokes on her own strained sobs.

When the witches’ gazes fall on her, seeking resolutions and any semblance of closure they might find, Cordelia hangs her head and lets silent tears snivel pathetically from her.

Having no family left to mourn, Misty’s death is a quiet thing. A quiet wound that the witches alone get to carry. When she first came to the Academy, many moons ago, Cordelia had told Misty this was her home if she wanted it to be, and she genuinely meant it. She supposes now, that they are her newfound family too.

Misty Day dies on a Sunday, and the world keeps turning as if nothing has happened. It lost someone so precious, a fallen angel dropped right on her front step; and the Earth doesn’t seem to care. It makes Cordelia so painstakingly  _ angry _ . To know Misty loved so much of what life offered, but wasn’t loved equally in return; not by her family, not by her community, not by the world and not by the heavens. 

She swears to keep loving Misty, make up for the time she spent being unloved, until the day the sun never sets again–even if said witch will never know, even if she never gets to tell her. Cordelia swears to keep loving Misty until the day she dies.  _ To be loved forever is, perhaps, the greatest blessing of them all. _

Misty Day dies on a Sunday, but unknowingly, so does Cordelia. 

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


A month and a week after officially opening the doors to Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Women to the world (a month and two weeks since Misty’s death, to be precise), Cordelia decides it’s due time to  _ try _ . 

What else is left?  _ How do I live without you? _

Gently, she begins to retreat into herself; that subtle degree of isolation necessary for the proper happening of a discrete but excruciating emotional cataclysm without burning anybody else. In difficult situations, all she knows is to compartmentalize and strategize. She needs to come up with a plan before she gets too invested in her emotions; that’s a luxury she can’t afford. Not now. Not when they’re scorching hot. 

Surely there must be a way to contact Misty–that’s the first step, somewhere to begin untangling this mess. 

Downstairs in the academy’s library, she cross-references all books that might contain any information regarding death–she finds readings about healing, protection, botany and potions, sacred rituals, eternal life in religion, and even necromancy. Cordelia’s eyes fly across the worn out pages, soaking in facts rapidly. In every book she’s put aside, the words “restoration to life” or “return from the dead” are underlined or boldly scratched out (a warning by previous Supremes, Cordelia imagines). Chapter three and four of an old green-leather journal are destined entirely on  _ Vitalum Vitalis _ –useless, since she’d need Misty’s body to execute the enchantment. 

If she reads any more of “cellular restoration” or “anastasis”, she thinks she’s going to puke. The more she sees it, the stronger her discomfort grows. The procedures she’d found are all complex, would require most of her strength. She knows resurrection of this nature is almost impossible,  _ she knows _ . Her hope shakes and she needs to catch it before it breaks entirely. Despite her wobbling faith and the headache blooming behind her eyes, she keeps flipping pages.

Hours later, Myrtle comes to find her cross legged on the floor with countless books scattered around her crouching frame. “You were always so studious,” Myrtle interrupts, startling Cordelia. “Ever since you were nothing more than a little, baby bird.”

The Supreme smiles appreciatively, too engrossed in her search to come up with an appropriate answer. Myrtle doesn’t seem fazed by her silence, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag to calm her well-disguised nerves. It doesn’t look like Cordelia’s moved an inch since she came to check on her that morning. Judging by the various chapters and paragraphs Cordelia marked and separated since, Myrtle knows what her Supreme is trying to make sense of.

“The greek word for constellations was  _ katasterismoi _ ,” Myrtle explains. “All constellations revolve around a central point in the northern sky, known as the  _ polos _ . The Greeks, romantic old bastards, imagined the heavens as a great, solid dome forged on bronze and upon which the heavenly stars were fixed. Titan Atlas was said to carry the dome and spin it around on his shoulders, causing the stars to rise and set. Part of the heavenly dome always lay beneath the horizon, dwelling deep beneath the earth within the lands of the dead.” She puffs out smoke from her cigarette, reminiscing on the information. “It’s beautiful isn’t it? A tad bit dramatic if you ask me, but who am I to judge the passion of the greatest poets of human history.” 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It is possible our beloved Misty has been hung somewhere far up high, where it would be impossible for us to reach.”

It takes Cordelia a long agonizing moment to understand what Myrtle is implying. “Are you saying Misty’s soul is trapped within the stars?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Is Madison up there too?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“How do I bring her back?”

“Though your willpower is admirable, I wouldn’t advise that. Gambling with the dead is dangerous, Cordelia.”

“Well, can’t we find a way?”

“The consequences of fetching our sister witch back could be catastrophic. We’d be forsaking our destiny, like Christian Lacroix after selling the brand to a retail chain. Oh it was simply terrible!”

Cordelia begins to open her mouth to object but Myrtle beats her to it, “Delia, do not make this harder on yourself. Isn’t it already painful enough?”

She is the goddess of all things, the Supreme in all her glory; then why is her heart so empty?

When she was younger, Cordelia would sneak out of her room, way past curfew, and gaze out the balcony, entranced by the vast, empty nothingness of the cosmos. Every night, she loved to watch the stars, loved to watch the sun dipping down the horizon as the night sky engulfed the city in a blanket of calm darkness and peace.

Now she’s not sure. 

It’s soothing in a way, to know Misty isn’t forever lost in the abyss; to know Misty isn’t entirely gone, still exists someplace Cordelia can’t follow, but somewhere up there, looking down at Cordelia like her guardian angel. A reminder that neither of them are truly alone. 

Tonight, the soft glow of the moon bathes Cordelia’s skin and with it, the realization that if Cordelia were to die right now, she’d be content. Satisfied that she was granted the privilege of having known Misty; to whatever extent and for however brief, it doesn’t matter. Happy she got to hear that laugh, got to touch those hands and even drown in the cerulean blue of those eyes. Grateful she got to know a love so pure, a glimpse of possibility for what it could’ve meant.

“I wish we had more time together,” whispers Cordelia to no one in particular, “I wanted to turn to dust with you.” In her scarred memories she can still picture Misty, her body fading away. Slowly, then all at once. 

Deformed, in her own way; an angel banned from the heavens. An effervescent dream.

The greek gods and goddesses used the skies as means of storytelling. Constellations are either acknowledgements of tragic heroics, or prisoners–damned or blessed–to an eternity amongst the stars. But when Cordelia looks up at those twinkling lights she can’t see past her own tears. 

“Are you still coming back to me?” she chokes out, almost unintelligible. 

The stars glimmer back, quietly.

Perhaps she came to love her, surely and infinitely, when Misty became another person, imprisoned. She spots Misty up there, the brightest star near Virgo, and the situation would be funny, if under different circumstances; because the winged maiden should be the angel, holy in its association with the goddess Demeter, but with Misty shining so close, Virgo can’t hold a candle to the witch.

Cordelia hopes Misty won’t be spending eternity hung in the cosmos. Although, if she were to, she thinks Misty deserves a constellation of her own.

(All stars should be Misty’s.

The whole sky would be, if it were up to Cordelia.)

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


A broken heart is a dangerous thing. Left unattended, the shards can pierce through even the thickest of titanium armors. It’s hopeless, forever waiting for an arrival, a return, a promised sign that says:  _ I’m still here, my love! Don’t give up on me _ .

A fool in love left behind can be reckless or immensely pathetic.

In her desperation, Cordelia attempts a spell she bowed to never try. If performed wrong, she could die; she’s aware.

Within the confines of her bedroom, she stands before a small bucket filled with burning mandrake, surrounded by a dozen candles arranged in a wide circle. She crumbles bay laurel leaves between her fingers–establishing a connection with the spirit world. With a hiss, she slices her palm allowing the blood to fall on the small flame while chanting, “ _ Cinis est anima, oriri ex igne, revertere ad me, revertere ad me _ !” Her flesh begins to burn through. Her heart beats hard and fast, body breaking into a sweat. Cordelia can feel her powers draining quickly. In spite of the searing pain bubbling on her hand, she doesn’t relent. “ _ Revertere ad me _ !  _ Reverter _ –”

When the flame bursts out raging, the sheer power of the spell sends Cordelia flying back on the hard floor. She almost lets herself believe she succeeded. Then it’s gone, leaving a trail of smoke and ashes behind on her floor, not for the first time. Exhaustion takes over her, pulse thumping, arms and legs going slack. Her palm bleeds profusely.

There is nothing left to surrender, but to surrender what is holy in them; this divine pairing of star crossed lovers. 

“Cordelia?” Myrtle knocks urgently on her door.

_ Shit _ .

But she’s too weak and tired to lie, “In here, Myrtle.”

“Whatever are you doing–” Behind her glasses, the redhead squints in disapproval. For a moment Cordelia thinks she won’t say anything, but then she shoots her the dirtiest look and spits, “Don’t be foolish. You could’ve died! Have you learned nothing?”

“But I didn’t, did I? I had to try. I owe Misty that much.”

“I gave you clear instructions not to go looking for her. She’s gone, Cordelia.”

“I love her,” she admits meekly. “I love her so much, auntie Myrtle. And I never got to tell her.”

This seems to hit Myrtle. A revelation too charged to dismiss, too pure to taint with her exasperation toward the Supreme. “I know, little dove. Anybody with a set of eyes could see it.”

“You know?”

“Oh darling, there are certain things that cannot be hidden,” she gives Cordelia a knowing look, which makes the blonde blush without knowing exactly why. “The way you looked at that young woman made the sparrows sing in a glorious harmony, and the way she cared for you was enough to make  _ my own  _ old heart flutter.”

Cordelia sighs dreamily, her mind filling with thoughts of Misty. She stops herself before she dwells too much on it, but Myrtle knows; she knows Cordelia is fighting against this growing feeling in her chest, afraid of swimming too deep in it, of it consuming her to the point of no return. Because this is something Cordelia will have to see through with the sick knowledge it will never be reciprocated. 

It’s Myrtle who always tells her the truth, and thus it’s Myrtle who in between teeth, despite her complaining morality, tells her, “Don’t be anxious anymore–you’ve already lost her.” 

Not because she enjoys being malicious, but because she needs Cordelia to  _ understand _ before she does something irrational along the lines of irreversible damage.

The Supreme carries not only the weight of this coven, but the weight of the world on her shoulders too. Perhaps Atlas was condemned to hold the celestial heavens for eternity, and perhaps he grew mad and bitter because of it; but Cordelia is condemned as well and she does it with such gentleness, Myrtle wonders how she manages to keep the sky alight in a fluorescent beauty while holding her back perfectly straight. 

Such strength never manages to take the redhead’s breath away. Brave and resilient to the point of having Myrtle forget Cordelia suffers her burden, silently and alone.

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


She dreams of Misty often. 

Sometimes they’re so vivid they blur the lines between real life and make-believe. In such dreams she is engulfed, succumbs under the power of those magnificent visions that feel almost tangible–in those dreams Cordelia shall see her.

Sanity begins to slip her mind, and she hopelessly waits. Cordelia begins to hallucinate her; everywhere she goes, Misty’s magic is a low hum reverberating on the base of her skull; everyone she meets, she looks for Misty’s golden mane; everything she does, Misty’s there. Only she isn’t. Everyday is a delirium. The woman for whom Cordelia waits isn’t real–she creates and recreates her over and over, looking for her touch, her voice, her presence in a desperate attempt to fill the void, fulfill her soul’s need to twine with Misty’s magic.

Cordelia believes she hears Misty calling from the heavens, shouting– _ follow me darlin’, I’ll save you from the ruins _ ; recognizes the voice she once loved. She is an amputee who still feels pain on her missing arm.

On these nights, the ones where she drunkenly tells Coco that she dreads being alone, the ones where she’s too intoxicated to spill that she’s just so  _ tired _ and that it’s not  _ fair _ , she doesn’t know if she can play this game of hit-or-miss any longer. She misses her, and it seems so silly that she can’t bring herself to say it out loud unless she’s inebriated. Everybody knows this, but she won’t allow it to tumble from her lips in the daylight. She  _ misses  _ her, frantically. She always regrets it, when she overshares, because she’s not used to opening up like this–Cordelia keeps her pain and her musings to herself until alcohol fishes them out–and she’s devoured by guilt for even toying with the idea of giving up.

She doesn’t want their story to become a greek tragedy. Won’t allow it to become putridly sour, a weeping performance.

Coco does everything she can to take Cordelia’s mind off of Misty. She’d planned countless movie nights, spa days, and even drinks every once in a while. Cordelia knows there’s nothing Coco can do to help bring Misty home, but when she’s with her, Cordelia almost forgets about the cavernous hole between her ribs.

Midday of a sunny Friday, Coco knocks on the double doors to her office, peeking her head in, short blonde hair bouncing. When Cordelia beckons her in Coco sits at the edge of the wooden desk making herself at home. “Hello, miss Supreme. Are you busy?”

“Not really, what’s up Co?”

“Let’s go out for lunch. God knows you need a break from all this shit.”

Cordelia’s been holed up here since the early morning, though she’d finished paperwork hours ago and has now only been sitting around. She doesn’t have the energy to face the day–she’s not really up for much lately. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun! I’ll even take you to that crappy vegan place you like on Maple street, my treat.”

“Well, in that case, you could drive me there every day,” Cordelia teases.

Coco scowls, throwing a pen cap at her head which Cordelia graciously dodges. “No but really, you need to get some fresh air. You’re starting to smell like my grandma, Cords.”

They agree to have lunch someplace they both like, foregoing the vegan place by Coco’s complaints (“Kale is fucking disgusting, how do you eat this?”). She’d wanted brunch at some fancy place downtown and Cordelia couldn’t turn down the promise of mimosas and good food. Now sitting at the patio with a splendid view of the park, sipping on their flutes, Cordelia supposes she could let Coco drag her out of the house more often. 

“Thank you. For taking me out, I mean,” she says after the waiter’s gone with their orders and their mimosas have been replaced.

“Don’t mention it, whatever you need.”

“Just taking my mind off things for a while is good.”

“In that case I’ll take you to a strip club. I’m sure that pretty little mind of yours will be busy enough there.”

“Don’t make me regret coming with you.”

Coco smiles coyly, not ruling out the option of taking Cordelia to a club sometime this week, if only for her own satisfaction of watching an awkward, overly-polite Cordelia try to make casual conversation with the strippers and turning beet red at the overall nakedness of every man and woman in the room. Or in the best case scenario (practically a miracle), a drunk Cordelia getting a lap dance, or even better, going home with someone.

“Does this have gluten in it?” Cordelia mocks, shoving a piece of spinach quiche in Coco’s face.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Coco squints. It takes her less than a moment before she screeches, “Actually it does, don’t eat that.”

Cordelia just snorts. 

“I’m telling you, this power is useless and a fucking curse. Last week I went out with this guy and I told him not to eat anything approved by the FDA without double checking first, you know, like a total health nut psycho.”

“What did he say?”

“Ugh, he was so nice about it. He even laughed and waved it off like it was nothing.”

“So, did you sleep with him?”

“Of course, I’m not a nun. His dick is the size of—“

“I truly don’t need to know, Co.”

“I’m just saying, he’s  _ great  _ in bed.”

“Thanks, that’s—“ Cordelia scrunches her nose at Coco’s crassness. “Are you seeing him again?”

“Nope. Not even if Jesus himself paid me.”

“Why not? Didn’t you just say he was  _ great in bed _ ?” 

“He  _ is _ , please. And he’s hot too, but he’s just so fucking boring. I don’t know how I managed to make it through my second drink without falling asleep. His twelve pack and gigantic penis aren’t worth it.”

Cordelia laughs again at Coco’s antics.

“Anyway, he has this friend who sounds perfect for you.” She takes a bite and chews cautiously as she thinks. “His name is Mark, he’s the CEO of this big ass logistics corporation I can’t remember the name of–”

“Coco.”

“Sorry,” eyes going wide, Coco cuts her rant off. “Too soon?”

Cordelia shrugs. Aware the blonde is only trying to help, she can’t even be annoyed. Her eyes begin to water and it’s all it takes for Coco to backtrack.

“Shit. Don’t cry babe, let’s talk about something else–forget about Mark.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.”

(Coco knows she isn’t.)

“ _ Ooh _ ! Tell me about Zoe and Madison.”

“What about them?”

“Weren’t they like, a thing? Cords, you really need to start snooping in everyone else’s business.”

“Were they?” Cordelia gets more confused by the second. “I recall they wanted to rip each other’s throats out.”

“Oh my god, you don’t know. I can’t wait to see the face you make when I tell you this.” Being as dramatic as she is, Coco takes a sip of her drink to build up the tension. With a smirk, she holds Cordelia’s intrigued stare and blurts out, “Madison and Zoe totally fucked. Well, them and their boy toy Kyle but I bet he didn’t help much, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re joking.”   
  
“Am not. I bet that’s why Zoe and him broke up!” Cordelia gapes at her, too shocked by the new information to say anything else. “This is too good. Queenie swore you knew about them already. She owes me twenty bucks.”

Cordelia shoves her playfully and they dissolve into laughter. Coco orders another round of mimosas and between the alcohol and Coco’s rambling, Cordelia allows the tension hovering over her head to disperse. They don’t bring up Misty again, and Coco does most of the talking, but for the rest of the day Cordelia feels the perpetual weight lifted off her shoulders.

For a nice change, it’s good not to burn all her energy on loss.

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


On the fourth month anniversary of Misty’s death, Cordelia collects her wits and bearings.

Ever since Marie Laveau’s death, the feud between the Supreme and the voodoo queen Fiona had idiotically started had considerably resolved itself; enough for Dinah and Cordelia to be on speaking, civilized terms. The voodoo neighborhood of New Orleans sits just across the bridge. A world not so different from theirs, though the distance between them helps. Cordelia finds a reluctant Dinah Stevens in her home and she’s met with a feeling of intrusion she’d prepared for. 

She is guided inside the house, past halls, and into a darkened room with a simple chair in the middle. There, Dinah sits in a high wooden throne, barefoot and tall, brown skin almost golden from the poor illumination. The chair is carved with sophisticated patterns and shapes; it’s decorated intricately with various furs and bones, a crown of ribs sticking out from its back, a leather cross in the middle. Hovering above it, the skull of a bull, another one placed at her feet. Marie’s throne–passed over to the new voodoo priestess, or mayhaps claimed by Dinah herself–is as intimidating as it’d been the last time Cordelia had seen it.

Unnerving, to say the least.

She’s indicated to sit on the chair, and without hesitation she concedes. After all, she’s at the home of the voodoo queen, she’s no Supreme to anyone on this side of town. 

Cordelia straightens her back, clasping her hands on her lap. “Dinah, I need your help.”

“The most powerful witch on Earth asking for my help. That’s a new low.” Dinah’s voice is laced with jealousy and distrust; almost as if she were expecting Cordelia to hoax her or attempt to kill her right on the spot. “What do you want?”

“My magic can only be pushed so far. I lost one of my most promising witches.”

“You want me to do your dirty work,” she smirks, and it’s as unkind as it is amused. “All this over a dead witch?”

“She wasn’t just any witch. Misty was special.”

“How special can this girl be for the Supreme to require my help?”

_ She’s everything _ , Cordelia would like to say, but bites her tongue instead.

“Black magic is dangerous, even for me. And it’s expensive, so unless you got a 100 grand in that lil’ pocket of yours, you better start asking for some favors.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?”

“Did I stutter? Cash, up front.” Dinah glowers at her, weighing her disposition to help the Supreme. She could easily deny the request and dismiss Cordelia, but Dinah’s too greedy and avaricious to wave off that much money, not to mention too arrogant to turn away an opportunity where she has Cordelia eating from the palm of her hand. “Got to be a new moon.”

  
  


Six days later, Cordelia meets Dinah out by the swamps at the outskirts of New Orleans, two hours before midnight.

“You bring what I asked?”

From her pocket, Cordelia retrieves a pair of Misty’s feather earrings. In a shaking cage by Dinah’s feet, the Supreme catches sight of a beak and two skinny legs. The hen clucks in a high pitched tone and it makes Cordelia cringe.

“Take the chicken out will you? It’s driving me crazy.”

With a rod of cypress, Dinah draws a perfect circle on the ground. The voodoo queen takes the writhing black hen from Cordelia’s shaky hands, seizing it by the throat so that it makes no noise. Inside the circle, Dinah moves her gaze to the sky and in a chant Cordelia can’t make out, rips the animal’s head off, lips staining red from the fresh blood. “ _ Euphas Metahim, frugativi et apellavi _ .”

Misty’s feather earrings are thrown in the circle next, catching fire in Dinah’s grasp. Cordelia offers her right palm, faced upwards so Dinah can make a clean cut. Her blood mingles with the flames and the energy cloaking them feels dark and repulsive. Dinah turns to face east, her eyes rolling back on her skull. Low chanting works up to a higher pitch, a fiercer commanding note, “ _ Euphas Metahim, frugativi et apellavi _ .”

Dinah’s body convulses, bringing her down to her knees until all energy drains from her body. The circle lights up in a green flame. Even Cordelia feels her magic hiding away in her bones, protecting itself from the foul things let loose in the air. With a whoosh, the fires die leaving the women in complete darkness under the moon.

Silence.

Heaving.

“Did it work?” Cordelia asks just above a whisper.

“Does it look like it worked? Of course it didn’t work,” Dinah barks, bloodshot eyes wide and alert. Her hands tremble, bracelets jingling and knocking together–bells ringing in Cordelia’s mind. “Your little witch is in some deep shit. You’re a fool if you think anything can be done.”

_ This won’t be our fresh start; I’ll fly another white flag over us, baby _ .

“There’s gotta be another way, another ritual–”

“I think we’re done here. Watch your back, Cordelia.”

Dinah hurriedly picks up her things that weren’t burnt in the fire. She doesn’t spare another glance at Cordelia. There’s a panic to her steps while she trails away back to the road, her slim figure disappearing in the shadows.

Later that night, Cordelia comes home to a quiet house–well, as quiet as it can get with seventeen girls living under the same roof. There’s footsteps and shuffling around, doors shutting and hushed conversation. This magic is almost lightweight, young, pure; nothing like the dark energy she’d felt out by the swamps. She meanders to the kitchen for a glass of water and isn’t surprised to find Zoe and Queenie still awake, marveling at something on the table.

“Yo, Cordy!”   
  
“Hey, are you okay?” Zoe questions, concern dripping from her usually chirpy tone.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“Come check out this new spell homegirl has been practicing.”

Zoe beams. The brunette fists her palm, breathes in deep and slow, eyes fluttering close. When she opens her palm again, a delicate white daisy blooms out of thin air. It hovers an inch above her skin, grows in size as the petals uncoil. With a fizz, it’s gone.

“It’s beautiful. Your powers are growing, Zo.” Cordelia’s filled with pride. A tear escapes her before she can catch it, though she smiles, mirth reaching her eyes with a sad, forlorn glint. “Misty would’ve loved it.”

(She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She hadn’t meant to lose her either. Cordelia’s aware she isn’t the only one who lost Misty–Zoe and Queenie did too; Misty was a friend, an ally, a sister.) The pair exchange a knowing look and then turn to the Supreme.

“She loved you, Cordelia.”

Cordelia gives them a disbelieving arch of her brow, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly, dismissive.

“It was so obvious,” Zoe says. “Plus, she told me. Made me promise not to tell but, well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why didn’t she say anything?”

“Swampy was terrified you wouldn’t love her back.” Queenie adds, chuckling at their blatant stubbornness. “Shit, y’all were so in denial. Oblivious, I’m telling you.”

“She told you that?” Cordelia chews on her bottom lip opening up the same scab she never lets heal; Queenie nods her agreement. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“Don’t say that, you’re not.”

“You’re just late.” In an attempt to calm her, Zoe places a hand atop Cordelia’s. With the most sincere tone she can muster, she tells her, “Your timing was off from the start.”

_ How terrible it is to love something that death can touch _ .

  
  


Days bleed into nights and time blurs together in a haze. Muddled colors and tuned out Supreme duties that leave no time during the day for Cordelia to wander off for long.

The stars hold all her secrets now.

“Zoe gave her first  _ official _ class today. All on her own. You should’ve seen it,” says Cordelia. “She was wonderful.”

She’s been doing that a lot lately. Talking to the stars hoping Misty could hear her, even if it was a futile effort; sometimes it was all that was left. “Queenie too. You wouldn’t believe how good she is at handling the girls.”

Being the Supreme–the most powerful witch on Earth–was proving to be fucking useless; she’d tried  _ everything _ , every incantation, spell and ritual. Cordelia had spent every free period she could sitting in the library, rummaging through dusty old grimoires and spell books searching for any sign or gateway to bring Misty back.

After four failed attempts (three of which almost cost Cordelia her own life), she knows what her only option left is.

Papa Legba is as cruel and gruesome as they come. He makes  _ one  _ offer, and one offer only. Take it or leave it. Cordelia, for her part, would unquestionably trade her soul for Misty’s. She’d give her left leg, hell, her beating heart so Misty could get out of that horrible, awful place; just so she could breathe fresh air once more.

Shadows dancing on the bare walls send a pang of terror down her spine. Papa Legba’s laugh bounces in her skull, booming and dismal. Blood pupils dilate at the sigh of Cordelia, his body reclined comfortably on the chair across from her. With her feign confidence in place, Cordelia’s resolve is intact save for the berserk pounding of her heart. It flounders at even the most innocent of noises: his death-stinking breathing, the shutting of a door, girls giggling, the drizzling outside–an ingrained sense of doom.

“The Witch Queen.” Leering grimace built of yellowed teeth and viciousness, his heavy accent pierces through her thoughts. “The last time a white witch summoned me, she came offerin’ some interesting things. I’ve been lookin’ forward to this meetin’.”

“You were expecting me?”

“You come with an intriguing request. Your soul’s desires are loud, child. Longing for one of your witches.”

“I’m here for Misty Day.”   
  
“Miss Supreme, you want me to rearrange the heavens. You’re askin’ for a tall order, it’s only fair I demand a steep price.”

“Name it. Whatever it is–”

“Do not promise what you cannot deliver.”

“You want me to give you a soul.”

“Not just any soul.” His ashened features harden momentarily, joviality shifting into a malevolent sort of glee. A flicker that’s gone as fast as it came. “Allow me to show you.” 

Cordelia steels herself, thinking Misty will appear before her eyes, someway hurt or twisted. Instead, Papa Legba offers his hand for Cordelia to take, which she does without hesitation. 

She feels the dimensional rupture twisting in her stomach. The world around her dissolves into a puddle and builds up like a glitched simulation. Fluorescent, flickering lights hang from the ceiling. They give the room a greenish, queasy glow that’s downright harrowing. The nauseating smell of chlorine and blood make Cordelia’s stomach churn disgustingly. Papa Legba and the Supreme stand in a middle school lab as children appear around them, each on their assigned seats wearing safety goggles and eerie grins. On the chalkboards lining the walls, the word  _ freak _ is written over and over again in a white scrawl.

“Misty?” And there she is, the woman of Cordelia’s fantasies, sitting amongst the other students, all flesh and bone.

“ _ Mr. Kringley, she did it again! _ ” a boy squeals and a man in khakis marches over to Misty, furrowing his brow. Misty’s personal hell is a monstrously warped childhood memory, a little girl’s morgue, a young girl’s tortured recounting of the bullying she’d endured for being different.

This is the part of Atlas’ heavenly dome that’s hidden beneath the earth in the land of the dead; this is where shiny things are no longer shiny.

“Misty, I’m here.” Cordelia desperately calls out, steps forward to catch the blonde’s attention. “Follow my voice.”

_ “You won't dissect a dead frog, you'll dissect a live one.” _

Mr. Kringley hands Misty a scalpel, forcing her to slice through a live frog on a silver tray. Its guts spill out and there’s blood on Misty’s hand and the wail born at her throat is despairing. Misty’s suffering is palpable in the staleness of the air. Children laugh mockingly. Cordelia’s skin breaks into goosebumps.

“She cannot hear you,” Papa Legba states, matter-of-factly.

“Get her out. Get her out of there, now.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I do not answer to you, witch.”

“ _ Mr. Kringley, she did it again! _ ” 

The scene unfolds again like a broken record. The boy calls and Mr. Kringley struts up to Misty, frog’s intestines stain the tray beneath and Misty’s cries don’t get any easier to hear. Again, the boy calls and Mr. Kringley towers over Misty, the frog’s insides spilling and blood under Misty’s nails and the sobbing makes Cordelia want to vomit. And the boy calls and Mr. Kringley struts up to Misty and the frog is cut open and there’s warm blood and the boy calls and–

“You want a soul, take mine! Take mine!”

“Ha! You are not enough. No, I need a pure soul, a  _ powerful _ soul.”

“I’m the most powerful witch on Earth.”   
  
“You are also running out of time. No, I want the mighty soul that rivals yours. She who is makin’ you fade.”

“Absolutely not, no. I’m not giving you the next Supreme.”

“I’ve made my offer. You can say goodbye to your little witch.”

_ “You won't dissect a dead frog, you'll dissect a live one.” _

This is what Papa Legba’s play was all along: to show her the worst, suffocate her with this horrible knowledge to coax her into giving up everything in exchange for the golden ticket out of here. Cordelia’s last memory of Misty will be this. 

(She’s suddenly overcome with the need to gauge her own eyes out once again.)

“I’m not giving you Mallory.”

“Mmm, then we have no deal.”

He’s gone in the blink of an eye, and with him, this daunting scenario that will surely haunt Cordelia’s existence. The violent anguish which grips her shakes the academy with a certain helplessness: a rough crashing tide against the shore, choppy waters that threaten to sink everyone. Anger bubbles in the monster coiling at the pit of her stomach, making Cordelia feel as if her insides were being twisted and stretched at the same time; uncontrollable fiery heat that stunts the rational part of her brain. 

She doesn’t want to love Misty anymore.

She doesn’t want to wonder what her hair smells like, and she doesn’t want to marvel what her skin feels like, and she doesn’t want to hear her fucking voice late at night. Cordelia doesn’t want to know. Her life would be easier this way and she wouldn’t have to worry about anything but the coven duties she’s been assigned to. Blissful ignorance. 

But this is all a lie because in reality, all she wants to do is  _ love  _ Misty and keep her safe from the cruel, cruel world. Keep her under lock and key someplace safe where the shadows of evil things and wicked beings and ill intentions cannot reach her.

Perhaps the stars are that place. Perhaps she should leave Misty where she is. At least it can’t get any worse than that.

Misty’s absence holds Cordelia’s head underwater; gradually, she drowns. 

Rationally, she knows Misty isn’t coming back. Selfishly, she’d give up  _ everything _ to see her once more. Just once, if only for a moment, that would be enough. Realistically, she has to let her go.

Against her best efforts, Cordelia begins to forget; forget her touch, her smile, her voice. She forgets the way Misty’s ringed hands felt wrapped around her own, or the way her southern accent became more pronounced at night. She forgets her patchouli smell, and the way her eyes shone whenever she got a new spell right. She clings to the few pieces left, glass shards strewn over her mind that she hopes time won’t be able to steal.  _ Careful what you wish for. _

And then, something strange happens: Cordelia falters.

She comes undone, in the most uncomposed way. Late night, a bottle of wine gone and the next one already uncorked and on its way; Cordelia is drunk out of her mind when Myrtle comes looking for her. The Supreme barely registers the knock on the wooden frame of the twin doors, hardly acknowledges her presence. Glassy eyed and so very small hunching alone in the middle of the big white office. It’s only on the third call of her name that Cordelia turns to Myrtle, who’d already put away the bottles and picked up Cordelia’s heels.

“Let’s get you to bed, darling girl.” Myrtle’s yellow gloves rub against the fabric of Cordelia’s dress, attempting to hoist her up by the waist.

“She didn’t get to say goodbye,” the Supreme mumbles, transfixed on a point behind Myrtle’s head. Her façade falls, and her often calm demeanor becomes transparent, glass face reflecting miserable dread.

“Hush, you’re squabbling nonsense Cordelia–”

“Misty didn’t get to say goodbye,” she stammers, looking at Myrtle. Tears cloud her vision, and the sob that ripples through her is heart-wrenching. “That only means she’s coming back. She has to, right?”

Myrtle places a hand on her shoulder, squeezes sympathetically. The harsh shadows on Cordelia’s face paint her older, stoic even if it weren’t for the string of pained declarations falling ashamedly from her mouth. This dawn is different—she’s not proclaiming how tired she is, or sitting silently wrapped under one of Misty’s shawls, or entertaining the idea of putting an end to trying.

No, tonight, she’s finally  _ mourning _ .

“Don’t be irrational, darling. You and I are very much aware of the horrors she will forever be subjected to–”

“No, no, no, she has to come back, Myrtle,” Cordelia cries. She shoves Myrtle away, her body trembles violently, the lights flickering with the sheer power of her rampant emotions. Her words drag out, slurred and taking advantage of her intoxicated state to make her concerns known. “I’ve tried everything, done everything. Something must’ve worked–” 

“She’s  _ dead _ Cordelia–”

“Tell me she’ll come back to me,  _ please _ .”

For once, Myrtle has nothing else to say.

“You have to bring her back.  _ Bring her back _ !” Cordelia bawls hanging her head, blonde hair cascading over her crumpled face. The redhead almost expects her to push her, to bang her fists until they bleed or scream until her throat is raw and her chest collapses. But she won’t, because distraught or not, Cordelia is still the Supreme and even here in the most undecorous moments, she’s kept together by that same elegance she wears as a mask. “ _ Please _ , I- I can’t–”

“Everything will be alright.” Myrtle places her gloved hands on either side of Cordelia’s head. She delicately cradles it, calibrating her thoughts and gathering her wits for what she’s about to do. With her index finger, she lifts Cordelia’s chin and gazes into her milky eyes. “Forgive me, Delia.”

Furrowing her brows, the Supreme is about to question Myrtle when the redhead takes in a deep breath, and speaks.

“ _ Obliviate _ .”

The last thing Cordelia remembers are Myrtle’s lips on her forehead and a vision of sunshine, golden curls.

______

ELEKTRA: “Oh beloved,

I heard your voice

when I had no hope

and my heart leapt away from me

calling

you.”

####  – _Elektra_ , Sophocles, trans. Anne Carson, from “ ** _An Oresteia_** ”

______

  
  


Dying in the arms of the woman you love is a blessing. Some people die an untimely death, cursed by terrible faith, while others aren’t even born to begin with. Turning to dust being held by Cordelia Goode is as holy as it gets.

Amongst the darkness Cordelia’s voice is a lighthouse, impeding her ship to wreck. She is trapped and there is nothing. Black emptiness and then horrors which make her flesh crawl. It feels like she’s been here forever and somehow, it’s a spare second, a speck of dust within the eternity she’s going up against.

A three stage play: nothing, Hell, and finally  _ everything _ .

White light wakes her amidst chaos, and it’s not warm and golden like the sun that seeps through the academy’s drapes. Misty lies there acknowledging her body’s discomfort and the settling consciousness that something isn’t right. Or maybe it  _ is _ right, though it’s not the way things are supposed to be anymore. The light’s all wrong and so is the air: acrid and sharp, stinging her nose and scratching the back of her larynx. She’s cold, head pounding and it’s not until she rolls over to spit out the gritty taste in her mouth that she realizes she’s alone in an unfamiliar immensity that has no beginning and no end. 

She lies there stiff, and doesn’t move for a long time.

Until the shadow of a woman crosses her peripheral. Her perfectly styled brown locks bounce as her short heels tap against what appears to be the flooring of this strange limbo. She smells like daisies, cigarettes and setting powder–straight out of the sixties. The unknown woman makes no sound but Misty catches her energy right away. It’s bizarrely familiar. Safe. Close to home, and it’s odd. When the brunette turns to look at the witch, her face resembles Cordelia’s all too well. Her eyes are the same chocolate color, the slope of her nose the perfect angle. As she smiles, Misty finds the same lips she’s grown to love so much. If it weren’t for the accent and the old-fashioned clothing, Misty would’ve sworn she’s meeting the love of her life for a second time.

“Where have I seen you before?” asks Misty, astonished by the resemblance.

“In a dream,” says the brunette. “A thousand years ago.”

And just like that, the woman is gone. Along with Misty.

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


Burning heat courses through her whole body, engulfing her senses and lapping her up in flames. Perchance this is her punishment for loving someone brighter than she could ever imagine being. Too close to the sun, then falling, falling, _falling_.

Misty Day is reborn on a Tuesday.

An espectacular thing for such a boring day of the week. After all the suffering and the fanfare surrounding Misty’s death, Zoe had expected her return (if it ever happened) to come full circle, on a Sunday too. The  _ normalcy _ of getting Misty back on a simple Tuesday is exhilarating and completely out of context. A banality that promptly turns  _ extraordinary _ .

Similar to the way she’d left, Misty materializes amidst invisible but burning flames. Her body rearranges and comes together in the middle of the living room, leaving a scorching ash-angel on the white tiles. Her coming alerts the witches with a spark, but it’s an occurrence as silent as her leaving.

There’s a moment of stillness when no one moves as the blonde lies on the floor. 

Cordelia immediately catches sight of her. Her breath hitches; altogether stops. The Supreme shuffles her way through the gathered girls and immediately kneels beside her, launching herself to Misty’s aid and letting the swamp witch cling to her in whatever way she needs. The pull toward her is inevitable. She's drawn to Misty's orbit, needs to keep close or else she'll inevitably drift away. Her mind scrapes her memories to gather any information she has of the witch; tries to find an explanation as to why her heart beats as fast as it does.

(She doesn’t find one.)

The last thing she remembers of this woman are safe, calloused hands wrapped around her own and visions of her burning at the stake in the outskirts of Lafayette, surrounded by an angry mob that hadn’t an ounce of compassion for the lonely soul that was Misty. There’s recognition in her melting hazelnut eyes, an act of grace, though it’s broken and leaves as fast as it came. She doesn’t understand why Misty looks at her with such  _ admiration _ it makes Cordelia’s knees weak. 

Cordelia doesn’t understand why she wants to scream “ _ I love you”  _ when she doesn’t know who this woman is.

They don’t speak and before Misty collects her breath to ask, she’s being surrounded by Zoe and Queenie and the rest of the witches. Warm embraces and laughter and much-awaited reunions.

Misty Day is reborn on a Tuesday.

By Wednesday afternoon, the coven girls have arranged a feast fit for kings. Red wine, white wine, whiskey and champagne. Bottomless glasses clinking left and right. Myrtle cooks her famous (read: infamous) green curry pork tenderloin, which nobody eats. She makes up for it with a peach and pistachio tart that’s nothing short of  _ splendid _ . In lieu of Misty being vegetarian, Queenie cooks spring risotto and ratatouille, one of the girls bakes mushroom pot pies and to top it all off, Zoe serves copious amounts of pasta. And surprisingly there’s just enough food to feed all of them and a famished Misty. 

The air is so inherently  _ happy _ , filled with a gleaming sensation of belonging that Misty relishes in; she’s never had this many people gathered  _ for her _ , celebrating something she deems as average as her own life. Light, jazz music plays in the background, Misty swaying her shoulders to the beat, Queenie humming along. Over grilled vegetables and bread and easy conversation, Zoe introduces her to Coco.

“I’ve heard  _ so much _ about you, Misty.” Pink lips tugged in a fond smirk that confirm her words. It makes Misty slightly nervous. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“All good I hope?”

“ _ Fantastic _ , babe.”

Queenie laughs at Misty’s bemused expression and tinted cheeks. “Coco, don’t be embarrassing my girl over here alright?”

“Honestly guys, what do you peg me for?”

Zoe quirks an eyebrow at that while Queenie guffaws her ass off. 

Myrtle clinks her glass twice, silencing the cheerful chatter around the table. “A toast, to our beloved Misty who somehow managed to find her way back to us. A phoenix risen from the ashes, once again. Admirable! May the stars carry your sadness away, let them burn now with it.” Myrtle clears her throat and dramatically dabs at her wet eyes with a handkerchief. “We’re so glad to have you back, Misty. You are, without a doubt, dazzling. I shall not drag this out any longer. Cheers!”

“ _ Cheers _ !”

Arms snake around Misty’s middle, Zoe hugging her close and Queenie does too and before she knows it, everyone is huddled around her for an embrace that tugs at her heartstrings. She’s wrapped in a cocoon of warmth that makes her giggle throughout the rest of the evening. Between the fuss, Misty doesn’t get a chance to talk to Cordelia alone.

Misty Day is reborn on a Tuesday.

From the moment she gains consciousness she knows her connection to nature has been severed. Strained. Perchance irredeemable, though she can’t be sure yet. It feels strange, the disengagement from the earth, from the magic that surrounds her, that pulses through the walls in the academy and pumps in her sisters’ veins. She sticks out like a sore thumb. It happened the first time, after the flames, though it only lasted a couple weeks and she was able to feel her powers sprouting; it happened the second time too, after the coffin, and on that instance it took months for them to fully resurface. Misty was able to perform simple spells if aided, and it was exhausting.

From her core she aches for that magic that’s currently nothing but incinerated dirt. Broken spirituality and broken roots and wilting flowers. She’s not sure what happens after Hell. Her magic is the purest thing she’s ever known; being stripped from it is disheartening, feels  _ dirty _ . Spring will come, soon enough, and everything that has bathed in the golden sunlight blooms in spring.

Right now she can’t find it in herself to care. Misty’s been hand plucked from the stars!

A glorious third chance at life that feels all too lucky. She doesn’t come into the world naïvely and alone this time; no, this time she’s got people who love her. Her tribe receiving her with open arms and tear-stained cheeks. Her beating heart shrieks,  _ Honey, I’m home! _

Misty Day is reborn on a Tuesday, and albeit she can’t remember why, Cordelia is too.

####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


“Hey, has anyone seen Mallory?” Coco calls, barging through the front doors of the mansion with her Chanel bag swinging. “Bitch totally stood me up at our cafe this morning. I had to pretend to be sick and make a run for it just so the barista wouldn’t hit on me,  _ yet again _ . Imagine sprinting in six inch heels–”

“I must admit I’ve done something terrible,” Myrtle dramatically calls from the living room. She waits for Coco to come into view to further elaborate. “I found a way to bring our dearest Misty back from that awful place, but magic has a price. That price was me. An eye for an eye.”

Coco squints curiously, perplexed and completely unable to follow. She cocks her head and urges the flamboyant woman to continue.

“People fail to understand the meaning behind the whole saying. The heavens claimed Mallory, instead.”

The blonde’s frown deepens, pursing pink lips.

“Mallory’s dead.”

“Holy shit. Holy  _ fucking  _ shit, she’s dead! Mallory’s dead!” Coco shrieks. Her eyes bulge out of her face comically and Myrtle has to suppress the bizarre urge to laugh. “What are you waiting for? Abracadabra her back to life or something!”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Coco. I’ve dealt my cards and I’ve been beaten.”

“This is bullshit!”

“You were trading your life for Misty’s?” Cordelia appears from the kitchen’s entryway, presumably coming to check up on Coco, who is still wailing and fretting around. Her question is just above a whisper, but it’s enough to get Coco to instantly shut up.

“How much of that did you happen to hear?”

“Enough.”

Myrtle flips her hair and sighs. “When you’ve lived as much as I have, you learn to give up a few things. Look at me, I’m fabulous, at my peak! If I have to die one day, it better be now that I’m divine.”

“Myrtle… Why would you do that?”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Myrtle says. “Darling, if you two could not make it, no one will.”

“Look, I’m all in for your lesbian Romeo and Juliet shit, Cords. But you have to save Mallory.”

Cordelia’s confused by Coco’s reference but she doesn’t ask her to explain; doesn’t want her to, either–Misty’s return two days ago has everyone looking at Cordelia suspiciously cheerful. As if expecting some big gesture or revelation of something everyone knows to be true but her. She’d like to keep it that way, for now, because she doesn’t have the strength or the mental capacity to face whatever it entails. So she doesn’t ask for an explanation, and Coco’s too agitated to give one.

“I’ll figure something out, Co.”

“You better,” Coco says, and Cordelia knows her rage is misdirected. She scowls at Myrtle and, with a tone that imitates Madison’s, spits, “I didn’t know we were setting our own friends on fire.”

  
  


By Friday morning, Cordelia has wrecked her brain alongside Myrtle for any solutions regarding Mallory’s unfortunate situation. They hadn’t come up with much. Myrtle keeps eyeing her curiously, shooting not-so subtle glances at her every now and then, looking like she wants to say something, but Cordelia hasn’t the guts to ask about it either. Ever a coward when it comes to her emotions and ashamed of her sentimentality, she’d rather leave everything where it is, untouched–secret things unspoken and buried emotions underground. Cordelia tries not to figure out everything at once. Right now she has to focus on Mallory and not on whatever Myrtle is impatient to tell her.

Faintly, someone knocks on the frame of the library’s open doors where the Supreme’s been working lately–she’d grown weary of staring at the same four walls of her office. When Cordelia turns she finds the woman she’s been avoiding twiddling a ring, hesitating just under the threshold. 

“Come in,” Cordelia says, setting her book down with a  _ thud _ . “How are you feeling?”

Misty shrugs with a lopsided grin. “Been better.”

“Of course,” Cordelia says, worry lines deepening when she notices the exhausted dark bags under her eyes and the paleness of her sunken cheeks. She wants to reach out and touch her. “Is there something you need?”

The formality takes Misty by surprise. Cordelia’s indifference hits her like a ton of bricks, feet shuffling in a nervous motion. “I was hopin’ we could talk? With all these new girls movin’ around it’s hard to get’a meetin’ with the Supreme.”

“You don’t need a meeting, Misty. I’m here for whatever you girls might need.”

“Right,” she says, dismissing her own joke. “It’s nice to see ya bein’ so sure of yourself.”

Thinking back to the blind woman Misty met, scarred and insecure under her mother’s shadow, she’s thankful for the sentiment. Cordelia’s come a long way since that compliant blonde, it’s true. She offers a polite, tight-lipped smile in return. “How are you liking the Academy?”

“It’s real nice. Busier than las’time I was here.”

Cordelia hums.

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence that aches in Misty’s bones with wrongness. This is definitely not what she’d expected to come home to. The detachment in her gaze makes Misty want to cry but also curl up on Cordelia’s side and be reassured that nothing has changed. Cordelia observes her and she’s exposed, torn open for Cordelia to decipher. Vulnerability is scary, something neither of them are positively used to. She would take the plunge if only there was a sliver of a chance Cordelia would love her back. She won’t profess this love though, not tonight; if she were to be mistaken about this, Misty wouldn’t be able to cope with the fallout and what it would do to her already fragile heart. 

“Good. Well, if there’s anything in particular you might want I’m sure Zoe will be more than pleased to help you.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you want anything else?”

Misty titters offendedly. “Shit, what’d I do for you to be treatin’ me like this?”

“Excuse me?”

“I missed ya, y’know?” The anger flares up without warning, her chest crushing under the weight of such furious sting. “You were that thing I held on to, that slim hope I had in that goddamn, stinkin’ place. I was kinda hopin’ you missed me too.”

“I don’t–”

“Yeah, you’ve made it perfectly clear, thanks.” Misty struts out of the office wiping tears off her flushed cheeks, leaving a bewildered Cordelia behind. 

“Misty, wait!”

“I thought you’d be happier to see her…” Zoe interrupts, purposefully getting in between her and the other blonde. She flings her head over her shoulder to make sure Misty’s gone and shuts the doors on her way in, the soft click making Cordelia anxious.

“Who?”

“ _ Misty _ . God, what happened to you?” 

“I don’t understand.”

“You rearranged the cosmos, turned it upside down looking for her. And now you act like you don’t know her,” she accuses, face pinched poignantly at Cordelia. “Do you even know who that is?”

“That’s Misty Day. She was burned at the stake and left to die–”

“No Cordelia, don’t give me the specifics written on her file. I know who she is, do you?”

Silence, Cordelia’s wry grin flickering on and off, on, off in the span of a few seconds. “I can’t remember. Her face seems familiar but I–” She bites her lower lip, a distressed expression on her face. “I don’t know.”

The clogs in Zoe’s mind turn a thousand miles per hour. (Ever Cordelia’s star student. Madison mocks her tirelessly about it.) “Well, you clearly know who I am. Do you know Coco and Mallory?”

“Of course, Queenie, Madison, Myrtle and even Nan. But not Misty…”

“How can you not?” Zoe accuses and it’s harsh enough to make Cordelia deflect her attention. With her nails she plays with the hem of her sleeve, unthreading the seams. A hand placed on Cordelia’s forearm brings her back to Zoe’s doe-eyed concern. “You don’t remember anything?”

“You brought her here. To us. I was blind then, and Fiona was still our Supreme. She came knocking on our door, running away from- witch hunters?” Cordelia frowns, “And then she was just  _ gone _ . There’s nothing else.”

“Could it be a hex? An incantation, maybe–” 

“Zoe, that’s ridiculous. Who’d do that?”

“Wouldn’t you know if someone hexed you?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue. Maybe. If the hex was powerful enough, or too obvious- How is this relevant again?”

“It’s gotta be something. Maybe Dinah–”

“Dinah and I are… good. Kind of.”

“Cordelia, this is ridiculous. You spent months putting your life on the line to bring her back.”

“Did I?”

“What?”

“When was that?”

Zoe gasps then, “You’re under a memory spell.”

“Excuse me?”

Zoe puffs a breath, as if it were crystal clear. “It’s the oldest spell in the book Cordelia, there is no other explanation. Your memory’s intact, everything’s in place save for Misty’s face.”

_ Oh, fuck _ .

Inside the greenhouse, Misty harshly tends to the plants. Which is unfair–they’re not to blame for any of their sloppy feelings, but they still listen devotedly to Misty’s silent rambling. Her hair falls in messy ringlets over her back and somehow she knows when Cordelia comes in the room soon after because the muscles on her neck tense. 

“What d’you want?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“Save it. I don’ wanna hear it.”

“No, you don’t understand. Fuck, I don’t understand.”

“I understand. Shit, it’s m’own fault for thinkin’ I meant more to you.” Shoulders dropping, there’s that urge again–the one that makes her want to kiss Cordelia senseless–but she bites it back because she doesn’t know what to do with it. “Thinkin’ I was special to the Supreme,  _ yeah right _ .”

“You are. Please, don’t think you’re not.” 

“Just drop it. We can just pretend this never happened and move on with our lives.” With a scoff, she shoots daggers at Cordelia. “Clearly you already have.”

Cordelia gives her this peculiarly decisive  _ look _ , this way of saying that she’s not going to let it go, that she wants to make it right. It’s stupid how preoccupied she is and she doesn’t remember feeling this way before. She knows it’s precisely what she’s been avoiding asking about. She needs to  _ fix it _ .

But Misty has nothing else to say. Or rather, she’s got a lot to say but it’s probably best if she keeps her mouth shut for a minute while she controls her breathing and keeps her emotions at bay. She’s so  _ angry _ but most of all, she’s deeply hurt and it must be obvious on her face; this anger is wet, the kind that constricts her windpipe and stings her cheeks with that unstoppable prod to cry.

“Misty, talk to me.”

She just ignores her. What does she want her to say?  _ I love you, I love you, I love you, _ runs a marathon around her mind. Misty can’t even catch her breath. 

“All I know is that, whenever I look at you my heart beats so fast it leaves me lightheaded and–”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Cordelia.”

“It’s true. It was never my intention to upset you, I’m sorry.” Cordelia goes to touch Misty but she flinches back as if expecting a physical blow, like Cordelia will harm her. “But Misty, I can’t remember who you are.”

Is this her new personal hell? Could it be that all of Misty’s memories are lies? Twisted fantasies of a lonely woman?

“That your way of bein’ funny? ‘Cause it ain’t workin’.”

“I’m not- It’s not a joke.”

“What do ya mean?”

“Zoe believes it’s a memory spell–” she murmurs. “I can’t be sure.”

“Oh, now that’s rich. How’d you get that idea?”

Cordelia shakes her head, tears brimming in her dark eyes. She shrugs her shoulders and lets her body sag, defeated. Her expression falls and she feels the fight drain out of her. She feels herself retreating even though she doesn’t want to. She finds herself going quiet without knowing exactly why.

“And what, you just decided one day I wasn’t worth rememberin’?”

“No, Mist–“

“So you just wiped your fuckin’ mind clean? I can’t believe you’d do this to me. After everythin’–” Misty’s nostrils flare, blinking owlishly in disbelief. Her stare pierces through Cordelia’s. “Nah, you know what? It’s fine.”

“I’m  _ so _ sorry. It isn’t fine Misty. Look, I- I don’t know. But please believe me when I say I care about you. So much.”

Misty’s hesitant. Her jaw clenches and her teeth grit and it  _ hurts _ . It fucking  _ hurts _ but she should’ve seen this coming, should’ve known better than to lie to herself. Words, how little they mean when they’re long overdue. Who could blame her though? For a moment in time, not so long ago, they had a chance. And it was real and attainable, then. 

Or perchance, then was too early, and now it’s too late.

“Tough shit. I don’t believe you.”

“I guess I can’t expect you to.”

“Then why are you here?” Misty sighs. She clenches her hands tightly into fists, nails digging crescent indentations in her palms, not fully registering it until Cordelia takes them in her own grip. Her thumbs draw circular shapes on Misty’s skin, and Misty watches the movement with uncertainty. 

“Because I had to try.”

“Why? You don’t even fuckin’  _ remember _ me,” Misty spits, and she can almost taste the venom laced in her sentence. She hastily pulls her hands back, bunching up the sides of her dress to keep herself from reaching out for Cordelia again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” Cordelia tells her. They let the silence hang, let it seep in their pores and jab in between their ribs painfully. Cordelia clears her throat uneasily and careens across the greenhouse. From a drawer in the potions rack she pulls a folded piece of clothing that Misty immediately recognizes. “I think this is yours. I’ve kept it all this time, figured you might want it back.”

Cordelia hands Misty her faded blue shawl, the one she wore the first time she met Stevie. Misty’s eyes gloss over with sadness at the memory. She’s hit with an underlying sense of longing. It pains her terribly that Cordelia doesn’t remember, that she has no clue about the apparently insignificant moments they shared, but that Misty cherishes deeply. The possibility of running away from whatever this is etched on her mind; part of her begs to turn away and leave and never come back. But that thought is overrun because Cordelia is here and, memory wiped clean or not, Misty still loves her.

_ Come back to me _ .

A whispered, “You really have no idea?”

Using her finger, Cordelia gently twirls a blonde curl. “I feel like I’ve known you forever. Like- in every universe. Is that weird?”

Misty shakes her head no, crying softly. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I know, Misty,” she swallows thickly. “Can we start over? I just feel like you’re going to be someone very important in my life.”

“I think I’d like that, Miss Cordelia.”

That’s enough, for now.

####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

Cordelia is thirty-seven years old when she meets Misty (without realizing it isn’t for the first time). It’s like a sucker-punch to the gut; she hadn’t anticipated whatever feeling it is that boils at the pit of her stomach and she definitely isn’t prepared for its ferocity. It’s certainly not love at first sight. Not the fireworks everyone keeps talking about, but a calm sparkling that tingles from the tip of her toes to a buzzing in her ears. Mirrors the feeling of walking straight into the ocean, sand wafting between her toes, staring at the endless blue giant to the point where it touches the skyline and even further to where it all melts into one; and holding her breath before she is submerged. She knows it will happen, eventually.

She holds her breath now, waiting for the first wave to crash against her. Because Misty Day isn’t like anyone else she’s ever met. It’s as if she were built perfectly for Cordelia and Cordelia only.

Cordelia prides herself on always being level-headed, always rational–love at first sight isn’t a myth she believes in. She’s been in love before, once upon a time, when Hank reciprocated the feeling briefly at the beginning of their relationship, and Cordelia’s surprised it even lasted that long. Now that he’s dead she’s come to realize perchance what they had wasn't love, but something else entirely built upon loneliness and spite. 

She’s absolutely certain she’ll be helplessly in love with Misty Day because in many ways, she appears to be the exact opposite of what Hank was; it won’t be a free fall, but rather a collision she’s foreseeing.

She’s thirty-seven years old when she allows herself to walk into love for the first time in her life, and she can’t even begin to process it.

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


On Saturdays, the city market downtown is specially crowded. Usually, grocery shopping is left to the house staff and normally, Cordelia finds herself dousing in school duties to make time for it. This particular Saturday though, Misty is restless, an over-excited child running around the building in search for something to do. Without her magic there’s only so much she can accomplish in the greenhouse. Sensing her nervous, pent up energy, Cordelia suggests they go for a bit of fresh air and Misty doesn’t even have to hear the end of it before she’s dragging her out the door.

Colorful buildings with old facades line the streets they walk on, skipping over puddles left behind by the late-September rains. Misty easily leads Cordelia through the busy streets of New Orleans, weaving through magazine stands and cafes, pointing out book shops and antique stores she thinks Cordelia would like, making mental notes to return to them soon enough, if Cordelia’s schedule allows it. The breeze is nice, warm and humid, making Misty’s curls frizzy. She also tries to pet every dog that saunters past them, always being stirred away after a couple minutes by an amused Cordelia. It’s nice, Misty’s excitement–her joyous approach to everyday life. It’s different from Zoe’s quiet optimism, and it’s a different kind of confidence than Coco’s obnoxiously loud one; Misty holds herself with a certain assuredness that’s refreshing. And it’s certainly appealing. Curious New Orleans’ eyes that linger on Misty for a moment too long send a stab of jealousy through Cordelia’s chest, and she tries to convince herself it’s nothing other than being protective of Misty; of all her girls.

Along their trek they pass by a second-hand shop, Misty pressing her face to the glass window, palms leaving behind humid markings on its surface. Cordelia stands back and watches her, presumes they’ll have a quick look inside before resuming their trip. Then, Misty begins to walk away.

“Why didn’t you go in?”

Misty shrugs, not really interested in doing anything in particular but spending time with Cordelia. She doesn’t care whether that be at the farmer’s market or the thrift shop or Venus. She’d follow her to the ends of the earth, would fall off the edge of it and grow wings for her. 

  
“Next time.” Cordelia offers, and Misty finds it gratifying to know there’s a promise underlying her words. A promise that they’ll do all of this together and more.

Tugging Cordelia to the food stalls, Misty’s eyes light up at the endless possibilities and smells. While Cordelia trails off to grab a couple things from her shopping list, Misty gets her hands on a chocolate croissant (and one more for later tucked away in a paper bag). They split a beignet, Cordelia staining her upper lip white with powdered sugar and Misty has to suppress the urge to kiss it away.

She makes her way through a pear and countless blueberries while they weave through the few clothing racks. Just looking. And by the time they’re over to the flowers most of the berries are gone.

“Sorry,” Misty says when she finds the container empty, though she doesn’t sound much apologetic at all.

And truly, Cordelia wouldn't even be mad, especially not when Misty pouts adorably at her. “We'll just get more on our way out,” she replies, to which Misty brightens.

Cordelia buys an assortment of seeds to plant at the greenhouse, and when she isn’t looking Misty buys a small bunch of daffodils.

Tapping on her arm gathers Cordelia’s attention. Misty takes one flower, placing it on Cordelia’s ear and moving her hair back for it to stand in place. Misty grins cheekily, running her thumb down Cordelia’s jaw and enjoying the way the Supreme blushes.

“I should give ya flowers more often,” Misty says.

Cordelia just chuckles. “Are you ready to go?”

When they finally get everything, both carrying a grocery canvas bag each, they make their way out through a side street.

“Need some help with that?” Misty asks, pointing to the full bag hanging on Cordelia’s shoulder.

“No thank you, I’ll just send them back to the Academy.”

“I thought magic wasn’t supposed t’be used for whims.”

“Well, being the Supreme has its perks, doesn’t it?” With a snap of her fingers the bags disappear into thin air.

“Can we get pie now?”

Cordelia giggles at her.

On their way back home, after sharing a big slice of apple pie, they stroll making light chatter. It’s a comfort Cordelia didn’t know she’d been needing, craving this sort of intimacy. The butterflies in her stomach flutter relentlessly. 

They’re three blocks away from the Academy, and Misty’s dreading letting her go for the day. Does she like this new version of Cordelia? She believes she does. Could accept it. Now with a clean slate, they could probably work it out. Misty grows quiet as she thinks of her life, always tumultuous but lonely more often than not. Sure, she’d learnt to appreciate the simpler things, the beauty in solace and the company of a nature that doesn’t communicate with words. Up until a couple years ago, it was fine, it was good, she was content enough. But with Cordelia what once was bleak is now screaming with the vibrancy of the whole color spectrum. She isn’t colorblind anymore.

“Did we ever do this?” Cordelia asks tentatively. “Before, when we knew each other.”

“Nah, there wasn’t much time for anythin’, y’know?” Misty snorts, unamused. “Between Fiona tryin’a kill us all and the witch hunters. Shitty times.”

“But we did other things?”

“Sure. Spent a ton of time in the greenhouse, you n’ me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You taught me lots’a spells and potions I didn’t even know ‘bout. You were a great leader, even back then, Delia.”

“Maybe,” Cordelia begins. She steps off the sidewalk, craning her neck to make sure no cars are coming their way. She crosses the street with Misty close at her heel. “Maybe we can start doing this now. If you’d like.”

Under the shade of a tree, Cordelia comes to a stop. When Misty catches up to her they stand close enough that Cordelia can see the grey flecks in Misty’s eyes; she’s entranced by the shadowy shapes the leaves create on Misty’s skin. 

A breathless, “I’d love that.”

Their lips are so close but then a horn honks and cab lights are bright on their faces and the moment’s gone. That’s the thing about moments, ever changing and trickily short–but Misty has died three times now, and she’s done waiting for moments to be  _ right _ .

“Can I kiss you?”

The question knocks the wind out of Cordelia, shock plastered all over her face, but her heart smacks her upside the head and she finds herself nodding without hesitation. Misty cups her cheeks, thumbs running over her lips once before bringing her close. She presses her mouth against Cordelia’s and kisses her. She kisses her ever so tender with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips but not pulling away. 

Misty captures her lips again and again, savors her greedily. She’s drunk on this, drunk on the sweetness of this powerful woman.

Overcome with emotion, Cordelia breaks the kiss and nuzzles her head in the crook of Misty’s neck. She smells like rain and patchouli; she feels like a lazy sunday morning lounging around in bed. She tastes like coffee and orange juice and eating strawberries off each other’s lips. Misty’s a sip of water after walking for miles under the desert’s red sun. She’s a vision of late night dates and slow dancing in their underwear. She feels like shower sex and running out of hot water and washing each other’s hair with coconut scented shampoo. She’s thunder, in the best way, striking up Cordelia’s nerves one by one, making her experience everything with vigorous intensity. 

Under her fingertips, Misty feels like she’s threaded with every golden wish and divine desire Cordelia has ever conjured up.

“ _ Misty _ .” Cordelia says her name with such reverence, it restores her religious intimacy. A secret prayer that belongs to Cordelia now, never has she heard someone say it with such adoration, never wants to hear her name fall from anybody else’s lips. There’s cognisance in her tone–the spell’s finally broken. “Where have you been?”

And Misty? Misty’s world has shifted on its axis, the floor swaying under her wobbly legs.

“I was ever so lost. I’m here now.” When she pulls back to look at Cordelia she finds absolution in her gaze. “True love’s kiss really works, huh?”

“I should’ve figured that out.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the sun. If I told you ‘bout the darkness inside of me, would you still do that?”

“Misty, even if you murdered someone before my eyes, you would still be my sun,” she tells her. “My person.”

“Why?”

“Because you keep me sane. Because you’re everything,” Cordelia says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She leans in again, only for a short peck before resting her forehead against Misty’s. Her fingers thread through the blonde waves, touch the base of Misty’s neck and run across her back, basking in the realness after months without her.

“I want to show you something.”

Gripping the cinch of Misty’s waist for stability, Cordelia transmutes them to the shack. The change of scenery leaves Misty dizzy. Squeezing her hand lightly, Cordelia brings her down to her senses while the wooden walls of her old haven concretize around them. The smell of swamp water hits sweet and tingly on her nose.

Misty’s back stiffens and she stops where she is. She stands stock still for a moment, eyeing the things in the room before glancing back at Cordelia. “You kept all a’ my stuff. God, it even looks nice in here all clean n’ tidy.”

“Of course Misty, this was your home,” she replies. “Leaving it behind would be like leaving you behind.”

“ _ Our _ home now, Delia.”

Cordelia answers with a teary smile, heart threatening to burst out of its constraints.

“You even patched up the walls. N’ look at this fancy ass rug,” Misty chuckles, prodding a foot out to touch the fuzzy thing that she would’ve never bought herself. It’s such a Cordelia thing: a rug, the art deco style lamp on her bedside table, the floral sheets, double drapes. It’s overwhelmingly good. All theirs. “I dunno what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Cordelia watches as Misty gets reacquainted with her old life and greets it with a newfound fondness. She can’t wait to start this  _ new _ life alongside Misty.

“Good thing ya replaced m’bed, Dee.” She smirks, desire leaking through her seemingly innocent tongue. “You had anythin’ in mind?”

“Are you suggesting something?”

“Maybe I am.” Misty extends both of her arms signaling for Cordelia to close the distance. “Jesus, come ‘ere.”

Cordelia can’t help the way her heart rate quickens as she draws closer, as Misty’s stunning features gradually take up all of Cordelia’s vision in such a way it’d be practically impossible for Cordelia to notice anything else outside this sanctuary they’ve created for themselves–God, she really is an angel, silver-lined wings and a blindingly radiant halo, all lean muscles and ocean-deep blue eyes and flowing golden hair ablaze by the idling sun overhead that filters through the window.

(It’s all more than enough to make Cordelia feel slightly out of place, a mere mortal shining by Misty’s emanating light.)

“I love you,” Cordelia says confidently.  _ Finally _ admits. Is at last, heard.

Misty kisses her again, parting her lips with her tongue and exploring her mouth. Cordelia wishes she could kiss her forever.

“I know.”

“Misty,  _ touch me _ .”

With steady hands on her hip bones, Misty guides her to sit on the edge of the mattress. Cordelia moves to remove Misty’s skirt but Misty doesn’t let her, swatting her hands away. Rather, she kneels before Cordelia, pushing the long dress up her legs and bunching it around her waist. Running her palms over Cordelia’s smooth thighs, she leaves a quake of goosebumps under her touch. On her knees and worshiping Cordelia like she were some goddess, it’s funny how Misty’s oblivious to the fact she’s the one with entire galaxies in her eyes. What’s a goddess against the luminous universe?

Misty’s slow and deliberate in her movements, but the hunger in her dilated pupils sends a thrill of excitement down Cordelia’s spine. She uses a cool palm to push Cordelia’s legs apart, placing a trail of hot kisses from her knee to the inside of her thigh, and repeats the motion on her other leg. Biting down faintly on the soft flesh leaves Cordelia babbling and impatient.

“ _ Mist _ ,” she mutters keenly. Long fingers tangle in Misty’s curls, holding the base of her skull close.

“Be patient.” 

When Misty stands she removes her own skirt and top, and falls atop Cordelia’s clothed body, now sprawled under her. Cordelia’s pleasantly surprised to learn Misty isn’t wearing a bra. Her mouth waters at the pretty pink nipples she would very much like to suck on.

Cordelia leans up, chasing the high of Misty’s lips but Misty only retreats, admiring Cordelia’s face.

“Let me see you.”

She kisses her madly then, drinking in every gasp until her lips turn purple and swell. Her mouth moves down to her neck and stops to bite at the base of her throat, pulling a deep moan from Cordelia’s chest that grumbles through them both. She takes Cordelia’s dress off with such veneration, such tenderness it makes Cordelia choke up. Azure eyes lined with smudged makeup glint at the sight of her body, raking over every line and curve of enticing pale skin.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Her hands travel under the flimsy fabric of Cordelia’s bralette and pinch her nipples delicately, Cordelia’s back arching into Misty’s touch. She reaches to unhook the garment and shoves it aside, not caring where it ends up for the time being. Misty bends down to wrap her mouth on a pebbled nipple and lap it while kneading the other one. She leaves a bite mark on the swell of her breast, quick to soothe it with her tongue, relishing in the sounds Cordelia makes.

“I’m serious,” Cordelia insists, “ _ please _ .”

She can feel Misty’s quirked lips against her skin. As much as she’d like to make Cordelia beg, she’s in no position right now to delay this anymore–believes she’s waited long enough to have Cordelia all to herself. Misty leaves open mouthed kisses down Cordelia’s sternum and licks a long line from it to her navel, where she sticks her hot tongue, Cordelia’s hips canting up in a desperate attempt to get some friction. With the pad of her thumb Misty traces the edge of her panties and snaps the elastic to make Cordelia squirm. 

Using the tip of her tongue, she licks up her length and adds a dirty, wet kiss over the fabric. “So good baby.”

Misty’s brisk to tear the underwear off, throwing them somewhere behind her, and with two skilled fingers begins to spread the wetness through her folds.

“ _ Oh _ .”

“Jesus, Delia,” Misty exhales, hooded eyes never leaving Cordelia’s face. “You’re so wet for me.”

Cordelia is rendered speechless, needs  _ more _ . But Misty doesn’t push inside. She removes her hand and is unable to bite back a laugh when Cordelia all but mewls at the loss of contact. Instead she lays flat on her back and instructs Cordelia to get on top, guiding each leg up to the sides of her head. 

“Is this okay?” Misty asks, and if it weren’t for the way her palms dig into the juncture between Cordelia’s legs and hips, Cordelia would’ve probably been able to come up with a verbal response in place of the high pitched moan she gives her.

Cordelia grinds down tentatively, Misty’s tongue darting up to meet her halfway. Her hands find the headboard the moment Misty’s mouth is on her, pulling a guttural moan from deep within her. Their pace is slow at first, only picking up speed when kitty licks turn into bold, deliberate strokes through Cordelia’s slit. 

Cordelia rides her face with reckless abandon, breasts bouncing with each movement. Misty has to clench her own thighs to relive some of the heat, groaning at the pornographic sight and making sure the tip of her nose brushes her clit every now and then. 

Her biceps flex when Misty hooks her arms around each thigh, grip tightening as she watches Cordelia’s hands fly from the headboard to run them up her own torso and toy with her nipples. When Misty slips her warm tongue inside her, Cordelia’s head hangs and her eyes screw shut. Her moans fall freely from her lips, cries born from satisfied gasps that are music to Misty’s ears. She blushes at how loud she’s become but it doesn’t matter now. Not when Misty  _ finally  _ sucks on her clit and has her tongue dipping in and out of her, shamelessly eating her out in search of her undoing.

When her gyrating hips falter, Misty knows she’s close. Cordelia reaches down to rub fast circles on her clit and with Misty’s tongue curling inside her, Cordelia comes with a loud sob of Misty’s name.

It’s downright sinful.

Cordelia stops moving for long, lovely moments and then her hips jerk lazily against Misty’s chin. While Cordelia unmounts her, Misty wipes the wetness coating her face with the back of her hand. They move to lay side by side, Cordelia’s body slumping against the mattress, chest heaving and colored by the exertion. 

Staring at Cordelia, Misty counts the freckles on her face, over and over, as if she hasn’t every inch of her skin mapped out and memorized. “I love you too, darlin’.”

Cordelia beams, still breathless. She’s content just laying like this, with the comfortable heaviness in her hips and their noses brushing. But she desperately wants to touch Misty and so, she begins by pecking her cheek, then her lips in a passionate kiss that leaves Misty whining.

Crawling on top, Cordelia thoughtlessly begins grinding her hips down on the plane of Misty’s belly. Her skin is still wet from her orgasm, inching closer to Misty’s mound though not allowing any contact. She guides Misty’s roaming hands to rest on her ass, so Misty takes the opportunity to smack her. Cordelia gasps.

“Watch it,” she warns, feigning strictness. She tickles Misty’s ribs in a playful manner and then uses her hands to cup Misty’s breasts.

“Delia, stop teasin’.”

Cordelia laughs heartily. She gives in to the request, because the thought of making Misty come is arousing enough to make her head swim. She stands and pulls Misty’s hips toward her, feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Nimble fingers hook on her damp panties and pull them off Misty’s long, pale legs. Cordelia places blazing kisses down Misty’s abdomen, the muscles there tensing.

Without wasting another minute she languidly swipes a digit through Misty’s heat, letting it soak in her arousal. She drags her middle finger through Misty’s labia, letting the tip tease her clit and then adding a second to repeat the motion. A couple more swipes have Misty cursing under her breath, her hips twitching to get  _ moremoremore _ .

She inserts two fingers, and when Misty’s jaw hangs slack mid-moan, Cordelia knows she did the right thing. Cordelia leans down to cover Misty’s body with her own, allowing better access. Her thumb rubs at Misty’s clit and the fingers inside her curl  _ just so _ , Misty has to bite Cordelia’s shoulder to muffle the angelic sounds that escape her.

Misty’s stomach pulls and clenches with each push of her fingers, right at the edge of her orgasm. 

“Let go,” Cordelia murmurs, nibbling on the spot behind her ear. “Let go, love.”

“ _ Fuck,  _ I’m gonna–” In no time Misty is writhing underneath her ministrations, coming with a stuttered jerk of her hips, releasing the tension with an elongated sigh.

Cordelia is bewitched by Misty. How beautiful she is as her flush face scrunches and her lips part to release the tiniest sigh. She enchanted watching as Misty’s orgasm washes over her. Cordelia helps her ride out the waves, only pulling away when Misty presses a firm hand on her backside telling her to stop her movements. She wants to make her come again, but Misty is wrapping her arms around her and shifting their weight so that Cordelia lays on her side. 

She manages to prop herself up a little to plant a kiss atop Misty’s lips. “Are you okay?”

“I am now,” Misty says, draping an arm around Cordelia’s waist and kissing the crown of her head. 

In the low light of the darkened room, Misty holds her until her breath evens out and the hissing of the stars grows quiet.

  
  


When she wakes up it’s early.

Barely peeking over the horizon, the sun tints the sky in a dreamy purple hue. Cordelia expects to wake up coddled in Misty’s safe embrace but is instead greeted by stark, empty sheets. The space her companion had been previously occupying is cold, meaning Misty’s been gone for a while. Panicked, she darts up, worrying it had all been a figment of her imagination. Though Cordelia’s sure not even her wildest dreams could paint a picture as perfect as what they found yesterday.

Slipping her dress back on and grabbing Misty’s shawl from the floor, she finds her outside, feet submerged in the shore of the bayou. The water grazes her ankles and wets the ends of her skirt, but Misty doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. Her mop of hair is slick and brown at the ends, sticking in clumps to her bare arms already littered in tiny droplets.

“Mist, you’ll catch a cold!”

“It’s real nice!” Misty calls back, followed by a dazzling smile.

“Come back here!”

“Ah, I missed this ya know? Ma’ gators n’ the fireflies. The breeze–” A strong wind whooshes, blowing on the ends of cattails that bend along with Misty’s lithe body, who wraps her arms around her middle. “It’s a lil’ cold,” she says reluctantly.

“Come here.” Cordelia opens the shawl, allowing Misty to half waddle, half run the short distance and step in. Trembling fingers palm Cordelia’s cheek, bodies nuzzling close under lilac skies.

“Hi,” says Misty, the tip of her nose red from the crisp morning, autumn air.

“Hi.” Cordelia peppers kisses all over her blush and gives their noses a nudge. “Let’s go back inside, it’s early.”

They climb under the covers, Misty resting her cheek on Cordelia’s chest. One of the arms around her presses on her belly while the other plays with a stray golden curl. Cordelia’s skin has a scent of vanilla and rain. Her breathing is even and to Misty, her steady heartbeat under her ribcage could very well be a confessional.

They remain silent for a couple minutes, stretching this moment out as long as they can.

“What was it like being down there?” asks Cordelia.

“Lonely an’ cold. Like burnin’ from the inside out. But real quiet.” Misty’s body tenses at the memory. She intertwines her fingers with Cordelia's over her stomach, an anchor lest she begins to float away. “And then I’d open m’eyes again to some hell.”

Cordelia doesn’t urge her to elaborate, doesn’t tell her she’s seen what her personal hell consists of, because she’s sure Misty has a hard time on its own dealing with the colossal repercussions. And Misty is content not knowing. The faraway look in her eyes swallows her in a trance Cordelia is afraid will always be there, ever present, germinating from her lungs the way mold does and rotting with the stench of death.

“I spoke to you every night,” Cordelia says, waking Misty from her reverie.

“You did?”

“Mhm, told you all about the girls and the classes… I’m sorry. I should’ve never made you perform the Seven Wonders, Misty.”

“Nah, it ain’t your fault. It was m’own decision, my responsibility.”

“But I made you do it. I made you stay, I believed if you were the next Supreme, we, I–” A sharp inhale and a hand to her mouth do a poor job of stifling the cry that claws its way up her throat. She’s bawling before she even notices, salty streams leaking from her mascara lashes.

Misty tilts her head at the strained sound. She instantly untangles from Cordelia’s body and moves into a sitting position.

“Hey no, Delia, stop. Why are ya cryin’ all over that pretty face a’ yours?” Misty wipes the tears away with the pad of her thumb, worried she might’ve said something that could’ve caused Cordelia such affliction. “Dee.” Misty taps Cordelia’s arms once, twice, thrice with her index finger– _ are you real? _

When she gets no answer but an incomprehensible splutter of syllables, Misty flips them over, pulling Cordelia to sit on her lap and securing her arms around Misty’s neck.

“Tell me what’s wrong, darlin’.”

After a couple sniffles, Cordelia mumbles, “I’m sorry I lost you.”

“What’cha talkin’ about? I’m right here.”

Cordelia nods fiercely. The apple of her cheek finds a home tucked in Misty’s shoulder, so Misty holds her a little tighter and patiently waits for Cordelia to continue talking, if there even is anything else to say.

“Don’t go too far, baby.”  _ Don’t go where I cannot follow. _

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


The flames arrive in the middle of the day–as unexpected as Misty had–nine months after Misty’s return. The Supreme only allows the council (plus Coco, exercising her rights as best friend) to gather in the foyer to assess the situation. Two bodies materialize out of thin air and it takes a long moment for any of them to understand what happens next. Cordelia lays eyes on Mallory and Madison–alive and standing right there, within reach–and the first thing she does is loop her arms around them.

(She doesn’t mind that Madison hugs back for a split second and practically shoves her away the next.)

Nan greets the coven with a sly sneer that begins to mimic Papa Legba’s all too well. She stands there, little in comparison to the rest of them and Cordelia notices how, against the fiery light of day, she has no shadow. Cordelia knows better now than to ask where she’s been or what activities she partakes in down where she comes from. She knows she likes Hell, and that is something the Supreme will never be able to comprehend.

(To this day it still sends a pang of guilt through her chest, but she can’t be held responsible for her actions and Fiona’s too–she’s grown to learn she can’t carry the dead weight of her mother on her back forever.

Cordelia struggles with it every day.) 

“Papa says you’re a pain in the ass,” Nan leers, specifically referring to Mallory who winces at the sharp words despite their positive connotation. “You bitches are no fun. And I don’t want to spend eternity with Madison.”

Misty can’t help but burst into laughter. “You hear that, Hollywood?”

“I don’t know where all this crap about me being a ‘pain in the ass’ is coming from. I’m a constant fucking delight,” Madison quips, hands on her hips.

“Clearly,” deadpans Misty.

Zoe tentatively steps forward. As her stretched out hand trembles, it’s obvious she wants to reach for the starlet, but doesn’t know how. “Madison?” Her voice quivers too, and Madison’s stance falters momentarily.

“What are all those tears for? Bet you bitches didn’t even know I was dead.”   
  
Queenie scoffs, “We kinda hoped you’d bolted or ended up in a ditch somewhere. Girl, we knew.”

“What’s important is that you’re here now,” says Cordelia.

“Yes, it’s all very touching,” Madison adds, rolling her eyes in an attempt to deflect the emotions she’s suddenly dealing with.

A shift in the energy flowing through the room announces the absence of something intangible. Asphyxiating, to a degree. It’s a stock stillness. The three women with corrupted souls share a look, and none of them know how to explain what the silence of ghosts sounds like. 

Coco notices Mallory’s discomfort first. “Are you okay, Mal?”

“I can’t feel it, my magic,” she croaks out, wild eyes jumping from one witch to another. She looks like she’s about to burst out in tears.

“I’ve lost my footin’ too,” says Misty, so Cordelia squeezes her hand appreciatively.

“Oh God, we’re not gonna have to hug or anything, are we?” Madison says. “This feels like an AA meeting.”

“Been to many of those?” Asks Queenie, and Madison shoots her a glare while Misty snickers.

“You don’t get to die and be reborn the same. Magic has a price, as all things do,” finally speaks Myrtle, who’s been watching the whole affair while leaning on a column of the room. She waves a yellow-gloved hand, vague and uncertain. “This is the price for resurrection.”   
  
Mallory isn’t all that shocked; perchance she’d been expecting nothing less. “Is it gone forever?”

“No little dove, it’s dormant,” Myrtle explains, “You chickens need time to rest. Healing takes its sweet time.”

“Great, I need a cigarette,” says Madison. She grimaces, batting her lashes mockingly at them and beginning to walk away. “And some vodka.”

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


Two years after Misty’s return, her magic is still hiding away. Occasionally it crackles like electricity, but it never fully comes back. Misty has long since accepted the fact that her magic wasn’t dormant, it was simply gone.  _ Poof! _ Despite this, she is still in touch with the earth and enjoys its blessings as much as she did before. Working in the greenhouse tends to her inner wounds and the soothing mutterings of the flowers aid in her path to healing. Misty’s worked so hard on that. It’s a piece of her that’s forever missing, but she is more than happy with what she and Cordelia have built; she can’t ask for anything else.

Magic or not, Cordelia  _ loves _ her. Even after all these months the concept feels surreal–Misty has to pinch herself to make sure she didn’t simply fall asleep hung up on the sky, and the stars are messing up her dreams–devious little things.

Nightmares plague her restless mind, though they’re few and far between. Cordelia always manages to scare her demons away. Some days she dreams of the laboratory, children sprawled on silver trays in place of frogs, and she’s always to blame for their endless suffering. She usually can’t grasp anymore sleep after these ones.

On other nights she is being chased by a darkness she can’t begin to describe, and when it gets her (it always gets her), it fills her up, creeping into every crack and crevice of her body until she’s nothing but black smoke in the infinite ether.

Cordelia isn’t spared either. Misty’s night terrors distort the Supreme into someone unrecognizable. She has frightening dreams where there’s blood on Cordelia– _ so much _ blood–sticky and coppery and it doesn’t always belong to her. Doomsday arrives with the sound of a harp and a blond boy with a stare so kind it's hard to believe he's the spawn of Satan. Cordelia stands in the front lines, thick skin covered in shrapnel wounds and Misty has to watch as the woman is brought to her knees by the weight of his sword. As much as Misty scrubs her fingers raw they’re never fully clean of Cordelia’s blood; or is it her own?

None of it is real.

(Sometimes she wonders if her skin continues to stink of bleach and chlorine.

It does carry the smell of ozone.)

She digs herself a ditch, six feet deep, and begins to bury the foul things her mind contrives. Foul things that stand tall and unblinking. Titans and giants. 

“Do you still think about it?” Cordelia inquires, almost inaudible. “Hell?”

No. Maybe.  _ Everyday _ . It sits in the back of her head, perched as a beast waiting for carnage. Sometimes Misty allows it to eat at her until there’s nothing left but chipped bones. Mostly she just throws a shovel of dirt in the ditch and hopes this time the beast chokes on it.

It’s late one night in May, way past midnight. Misty woke in a silent scream, body trembling and covered in sweat. Cordelia was awake then, as she is most nights, watching her. Wordlessly she enveloped Misty in her arms and held her until the tears dried. They haven’t moved since then, and the darkness outside is beginning to slip away.

“I try not to.”

  
  


####  . ⋆ ˚｡・✧・｡˚ ⋆ .

  
  


Everything in the greenhouse dies. It’s bizarre, considering the amount of time and care Misty and Cordelia put into it, but one Monday in June everything shrivels and wilts. The leaves aren’t green but brown and the petals aren’t dry but rotting away. It is all rotting away. A waft of soggy air hits Cordelia’s nostrils as she walks in, brows up to her hairline in utter confusion.

No amount of magic or water or fertilizer is able to reverse it.

The next morning, Misty wakes much later than usual and alone. She finds dirt on their white sheets and an uneasy sensation at the pit of her stomach. As soon as she sits up her chest tightens, and she runs to the bathroom to bury her head in the toilet bowl. She vomits nothing but chunky black bile. She doesn’t remember going back to sleep.

A cool palm atop her sweaty forehead wakes her from her restless slumber. Cordelia comes to check up on her when she doesn’t show up for lunch–she’d already missed breakfast, and Misty isn’t one to skip any meals. Her hazelnut eyes crinkle with unspoken concern. Misty wants to assure Cordelia everything is fine but when she moves her muscles twinge and contract.

Between chapped, colorless lips she manages to croak out, “I don’t feel good.”

“Maybe it was something you ate?”

“Dunno.” She feels drowsy, grappling with consciousness. “I just wanna go back t’sleep.”

Her body slumps before Cordelia asks anything else. She sleeps for the remainder of the evening.

Anytime Misty so much as coughs or stirs, Cordelia jolts awake. Frankly she’s terrified; she dreads the nighttime now, what if the cosmos wants its fallen star back?

She spends the night beside her, curling the ends of her pale blonde curls around the tips of her fingers and watching her chest rise and fall with difficulty. Cordelia yearns for her still, no matter how close or how tight she holds her. She doesn’t have to, not anymore. Cordelia understands. They’re both here now; they were given another chance– _ they’ll make it _ . But this yearning has grown roots through her spine and drilled itself a hole in her hypothalamus.

“I can’t lose you again,” she whispers in the silence, brushing Misty’s hair out of her face. “I won’t survive it.”

Cordelia doesn’t go back to sleep, but she grips Misty’s back a little tighter and pulls her a bit closer until their bodies melt into one. Because if the stars will come to snatch her away, then they’ll be obliged to take them both.

Everything in the greenhouse flourishes overnight.

Gone are any traces of decay and in its place, rich vibrant blooms litter the floor and line the walls. It’s hard to see through the overgrown leaves and roots that overflow the pots. The flower petals mix together like watercolors; the sunflowers gleam, the poppies seem to dance and the magnolias sing their little tune.

“Mist?” Cordelia croaks out, in awe at everything going on around her. “What happened? How did you do this?”

“Ain’t it wonderful?” She appears to be so at home in this dreamlike garden, where nothing evil could ever touch them again. Eden. Misty’s semblance finds a new glow too. Her skin is radiant and her cheeks are flush. 

“It is. You’re feeling better.”

“Much. I was gettin’ the heebie jeebies. Thought I was rottin’ or somethin’.”

(Cordelia swallows with difficulty at the dreadful thought.)

“I got somethin’ for you.” Misty puts her hands together in a cocoon, and when she extends them, from her palms peonies of all sizes and colors are born. The petals shine against the light and then become fireflies that dart around their heads in spirals.

Hundreds of fireflies dance above them. She’d failed to notice before.

“Your magic. It’s back–” Cordelia’s bottom lip trembles. “How is this possible?”

Misty shrugs, “When I woke this morning it was just there. My head buzzed like crazy and I just knew.”

“And you did this?”

“I think so? When I came in everythin’ was alive. Damn, I wish you’d seen it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, craning her neck to glance around before landing back on Misty. “You’re beautiful.”

Hands around her waist hoist Cordelia up with a strength that shouldn’t surprise her, and twirl the woman around in the air. Cordelia shrieks as she spins and Misty releases a big belly-laugh that has Cordelia laughing too.

When her feet are back on the ground, Misty kisses her senseless; but then again, anytime Misty kisses her she’s left starstruck. 

“I love you,” Misty whispers against her lips, “So much.”

Everything in the greenhouse flourishes with their love as well.

Cordelia’s sure when their time is up and the heavens reclaim them again, they’ll find their rightful spot within the twinkling lights as simple stories (not devils and not saints. Cordelia is done playing God–never believed she was anything close to saintly). Deities are such greedy creatures. One day, when this is all over, they’ll name constellations after them, so their love can be eternal too.

The stars stole her life away and whispered her name between bloodstained teeth; Cordelia now hates looking for constellations. Neither of them watch the sky anymore–there’s so much for them down here already, where things aren’t as shiny, but bloom.

“Reckon they know?”

“Who knows what, Mist?”

Misty’s eyes shimmer, incandescent. “The stars. That we’ve cheated death.”

“I hope they do.”

Cordelia no longer makes woeful wishes on shooting stars.

  
  
  
  
  


“À la très chère, à la très belle

“To the dearest, fairest woman

Qui remplit mon coeur de clarté,

Who sets my heart ablaze with light,

À l'ange, À l'idole immortelle…”

To the angel, the immortal idol…”

– Charles Baudelaire, **_Hymne_** de “ ** _Fleurs du Mal_** ”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 18k words of angst and yearning, sprinkled with some tenderness because we’re all gay and sad.
> 
> I don’t know why I keep writing this shit. I was really sad when I came up with it. 
> 
> Anyway, talk with me about foxxay on [tumblr](https://dirtyrippedjeans.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (or [send me prompts](https://ixarellano.tumblr.com/ask) to draw these spoopy lesbians!)


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